


The Advisor's Struggle

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is a worthy advisor. Enjolras comes home, worried over something Grantaire has said, and Combeferre fixes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Advisor's Struggle

  


When Enjolras came home that night, he was drunk, and the tipsiness that accompanies bad brandy and cheap wine affected him with a stumbling gait far removed from his usual grace, far removed from his usual easy stride with his chin up and his shoulders squared - now, Enjolras toddled and tripped over the smooth wood board of their room, and he did not giggle as Joly and Prouvaire did when drunk (Joly with his bright scarlet cheeks and his pink ears and his sweet chuckles, Prouvaire with his laughter punctuating sentences he can never quite manage to complete for in his drunkenness he is easily distracted and thinks he has said more words than he has), but was solemn and severe. His countenance starkly opposed his clumsy, almost comical movements, but Combeferre was well-practised in the art of dealing with blond revolutionaries, and so he made no comment on this obvious fact at all.

The night was dark, but through the window golden light trickled in from a street lamp outside, its candle flickering for the icy bite of a cruel November wind, and the room was illuminated mostly by the fire crackling merrily enough in its grate (Combeferre and Enjolras were extremely lucky for their housing, were honest about that truth, and regularly brought home some gamin or another to ensure they were warm and healthy and, for as many nights as it could be afforded, well-fed), as well as the lone candle of white wax that settled on Combeferre’s desk.

He regarded Enjolras from here over his spectacles with raised eyebrows, as Enjolras tripped over his own feet and dropped spectacularly onto the bed, letting out a loud sigh against the cream-coloured bed clothes before hiding his face in his hands. Combeferre inwardly prepared himself for some uncomfortable conversation. 

 This room was far from sparsely decorated - where Combeferre was settled in place at his desk, another was next to him, its seat empty of its often studious master. There was a bed in this room, and a second in the next, although truth be told the latter was used less than the former, for this room was both comfortable and warmer, and Enjolras and Combeferre had shared a bed,  _sans_   _vetements,_  with no worry for the potential misconstruance of their relationship for all too long now.

They were honest with each other, and naked not merely in body but in mind and soul often enough, just as they were with Courfeyrac on the occasions it was just those three together, or either of them paired with his bright spirits on a luckier day than this one.

There were shelves in both rooms, each with neatly scattered books laid upon their carved out shelves, most of them Combeferre’s, and on one shelf particularly were piled pamphlets and posters and such on and so forth, because Enjolras was a collector of things and Combeferre insisted he didn’t  _clutter_ , so they remained in their place on the wall.

There were four pistols in the bedside cabinet. Neither of them spoke of this, and very rarely considered doing so.

"What am I doing, Combeferre?" Enjolras asked finally after an agonizing, long-pregnant pause. "What am I doing?" The reiteration came in a whisper, a  _desperate_  whisper, and Combeferre set aside his pen to turn on his stool and regard Enjolras’ sprawled form with some concern. Enjolras moved languidly, slowly, and began to unlace his boots with usually deft slender fingers working with a startling inelegance. There had been the mildest of slurs to his words, but Combeferre had no care for that at this time.

"What do you mean, what are you doing?" Combeferre asked carefully as Enjolras pulled each boot off and threw them across the room, where the leather seemed to clatter against the wall before dropping onto the ground in its designated corner.

"Dost thou know my path?" Enjolras asked, leaning forwards in a dangerous sway, his hands loosely clasping at the trousers covering his knees. He spoke fervently, his eyes wide, and Combeferre frowned as he moved forwards, leaning to unbutton Enjolras’ waistcoat before his brandy-clumsy fingers could attempt the gruelling task. "For I do not know myself! I do not know, Combeferre. I do  _not_. And therefore, given that you seem to know me very well, indeed, far better than I know myself, I thought I would ask you. What in God’s name am I  _doing?”_  And then Enjolras’ face was hidden behind his hands again, the nails digging into the mess of blond hair messily tousled around a marble forehead.

"Did something happen?"

"Grantaire." was all Enjolras said, with such a remarkably morose slant to the word that even Combeferre was taken aback, and the other student nodded, easing Enjolras’ vest from his shoulders before setting it aside. 

"What did he say?"

"He said barely a word; I said all." Enjolras confessed, and his tone was ragged, broken, melancholy clinging to that every word as harpies cling to tortured souls lost at sea, and Combeferre restrained from letting out a quiet sigh.

"What did thou sayest to him?" Combeferre asked softly, dropping into the more familiar tone Enjolras had used moments before, and the blond took in a little gasp before he went on to speak.

"I told him I believed him to be worthless, that I believed his brush on canvas to be as much use as dead leaves to the muses, I wished upon him that he should find his true Athena  and that then he should die at her feet and prove his use for something, and I told him that not even Morpheus could conjure a world so pleasant as to be deprived of him entirely."

Grantaire had been waxing poetic about a new love that week, one that inspired him above all things. His Athena and her wisdom, that is. He had been mostly sober and without a bottle in hand, the drink replaced by an addiction that was sweeter and more beautiful than intoxication - love. His glass was replaced by the pencil, his bottle by the paintbrush, and continually that week he had been settled with his sketchpad on his knee, talking readily with Bahorel, and with Joly and Bossuet, about his intentions.

Enjolras had come home fuming the first night this event had begun, complaining rapidly of Grantaire’s mistress, how she was surely unfeeling if she were hewn of marble as he said, if she was surely cruel to be so passionate and biting as Grantaire claimed, and useless if it was true that she could neither an épée nor a fist to box, if she could not dance or sing or create poetry, and had only the skill to argue. What worth was she to a man as Grantaire, who could be so  _brilliant_  if he only tried to succeed? _  
_

Combeferre had said little to this. Grantaire’s fickle tendencies were a subject he and Enjolras spoke of often, and yet Combeferre had barely fifty words he would ever spend upon the subject, for it was not his place to, and he did not worry for Grantaire as Enjolras did (and pretended not to). He had quietly noted that Enjolras said nothing of the distraction this slender being was apparently creating in regards to their cause, but of Grantaire’s well-being. Of this, also, Combeferre said nothing, for he was nothing if not a logical man, and rationality dictated that saying such a thing would land him a striking blow to the face or a furious Enjolras stamping out into the streets of Paris, far away from Combeferre.

"And what did he say to that?" The question was poised deliberately, Combeferre’s tone mild, as gentle as he could manage it. Enjolras choked out a noise that was neither a sob nor a cry, and yet it broke Combeferre’s heart in two for all the same.

"He said that I was his true Athena, and should I wish it, he would use the pistol now."

"Oh." Combeferre said, not really knowing what else to respond to such a statement with. Enjolras stared into the space before him, looking dazed and lost in a way he had not for nearly a decade now, not since he and Combeferre were mere boys.

"I ask you again: what am I doing?" Enjolras was pleading with his eyes, those blue, beautiful irises shining with something wet and teary in the light of the candle, and Combeferre looked at him. 

"You are talking to the wrong man." Combeferre said finally, and Enjolras thrust himself back on the bed, wringing his hands with such a fierceness to the movements Combeferre momentarily worried, ridiculously, that Enjolras might snap a tendon.

"He proclaimed himself in love." Enjolras whispered.

"So he did." Combeferre agreed. "With you, it would seem."

"I will die."

"You will not." Combeferre said reproachfully - he thought he had cured Enjolras of such dramatics long ago, but in moments like these his tendencies of hyperbole would resurface.

"He does not love me."

"Have you ever known Grantaire to lie?" These were unfamiliar waters for Combeferre, but alas, it was much the same for Enjolras - and that is why he had come to speak to Combeferre, of course. He had known of Grantaire’s affectation where Enjolras was concerned for a time now, but a confession such as this was far removed from what he’d expected it to fruit into.

"Many times." Enjolras muttered, but then he stroked his hand over his face and looked to his boots. "I should go to him."

"No." Combeferre said, and he stood, grasping his coat from the back of the door. "I shall. Wait for me."

And then Combeferre was moving out into a Parisian night, wincing at the freeze of ice on his cheeks and at his hands,  _painful_ , but then, winter was as cruel as she always had been, and there was no doubt in the fact that Combeferre was lucky for the coat upon his back keeping most of her attentions arrested.

Enjolras was an oddity among men. He was benevolent and yet at times entirely removed from humanity, caring and yet detached, passionate for the raise of mankind and yet with little understanding for how men functioned. 

His unfettered delight in Feuilly’s words were something different - Feuilly seemed to be one man Enjolras completely understood, and whether that was because he put his struggles into terms Enjolras easily understood or whether it was for the fact that Enjolras admired the other man’s tenacity, Enjolras was affectionate.

Similarly, he was affectionate with Courfeyrac and Combeferre behind closed doors, fond in the way one was with his brother or with his sister, affectionate and laughing and bright and engaging occasionally in mischief which was both improper and hilarious (this latter was more on Courfeyrac and Enjolras’ parts than on Combeferre’s own, though it could not be said the doctor-to-be did not give as good as he got, if not better.)

Grantaire was quite another matter entirely. Enjolras was frustrated by him, not merely for his lack of belief in liberty, Patria, or Enjolras’ cause, but because he was a genius,  _knew_  this fact, and made no effort to make anything of it. Enjolras knew Grantaire had been a student of Antoine-Jean Gros, and now? He was not. Enjolras knew Grantaire to speak no less than three languages - French, with English and German atop. And yet did he translate? Did he read in these languages, engage in discourse, or assist Courfeyrac in his work? He did none of these. Grantaire was a boxer, a dancer, a talented fencer, and yet he engaged in no tournaments or performances, brought as little attention as he could manage to these skills as possible. He could play piano, and Enjolras was certain he could sing. He knew philosophy and he knew history and he knew art and he knew politics, and would he discuss a one with more than an  _inkling_  of his true knowledge of the subject, a bare fraction of what he was truly aware of before he claimed obviously false ignorance?

Would he Hell.

And yet, for all of this, Grantaire was devoted to Enjolras. He had never gone so far as to proclaim himself in love before, nor to lift his spirits as he had in the past week, but certainly he had been worshipful, had venerated Enjolras. This, of course, had only provoked the blond into further furies.

Enjolras was not a man to conduct half measures. Not a single emotion he had was mild, not a single word he said was weak, and a passion he possessed was never a light one. Grantaire took these truths, these rules of Benoit Enjolras, and sent him into utter and complete disarray. 

And Enjolras only went back for more.

Grantaire was to be found in the Corinthe, draped over Bahorel and looking as morose as he could be. Combeferre spared not a word to Bahorel, the woman laughing beside him, nor to Grantaire himself - he merely grappled Grantaire by the collar of his green waistcoat and lifted him with a strong arm before dragging him out into the cold air and walking with him.

"What are you doing, man!?"

"I am taking you home." Combeferre replied easily to Grantaire’s loud and disgruntled protestation, dropping his grip on green cloth only to take his arm.

"Home?"

"To Enjolras." Grantaire said nothing, but merely looked away, green eyes traversing the faces of passers-by rather than dare look upon Combeferre’s countenance. "You will talk tonight, and this ridiculous dance the two of you have been engaged in will come to an end."

"You are certain of this?"

"Certain." Combeferre confirmed, ignoring Grantaire’s attempt at a jibe, and the brunet was silent. Combeferre did not enter the apartment with him, merely propelling Grantaire through the entrance before closing the door behind him, and then he settled against the wall for just a moment, feeling the cool plaster beneath his forehead.

With a small inhalation, he steadied himself, stood straight, and made his way to Courfeyrac’s apartment.

"I have come to bed you." He said, bolder even than the words that would be spoken on the same doorstep in a few months time by a very different man, and Courfeyrac beamed at him. 

"Marvelous! I had worried I would be forced to slumber on my lonesome!" Courfeyrac was comfortable to sleep with, his embrace warm without being cloying, and he and Combeferre teased each other when they lay in bed the next day, laughing, joking. "What was it that affected you so to leave your home and come to my willing embrace, then?" Courfeyrac asked as he reluctantly pulled himself from bed to grasp bread and cheese in order for the two of them to breakfast, and Combeferre sighed.

"Enjolras and Grantaire." He said,and that was all he needed to add, for Courfeyrac understood well what he meant without even context.

"All will be well." He said wisely, and Combeferre did not believe him. They ate together, and then retired to bed for a second time, distracting each other firmly from the days uncertain proceedings.

They need not have worried ( _Combeferre_  need not have worried: Courfeyrac had spared no anxiety for this matter at all). In the Musain the next evening, Enjolras’ hand did not leave Grantaire’s once he had seated himself: their fingers, the slender, deft and gentle digits of Athena, and the calloused, strong, paint-flecked ones of Dionysus, remained entwined.

Not one man made a comment, although Joly and Bossuet never ceased to grin for the entirety of the evening, and Bahorel slapped Enjolras heartily enough on the back that the blow served to wind him even as he forced a smile.

It was right.

His advisor’s struggle had not been for naught.


End file.
